Creative reflections on the personal meaning of Easter

I'm a young girl, and I'm awake.  I'm walking through the hallways of the palace, even though it's past my bedtime.  I should be asleep and I know it, but I was scared, and so I'm seeking out the thing that says security and comfort to me - my father.  I open the door to his study, which is dark and deserted.  He's not there.  I go to the throne room - sometimes he likes to sit there late at night.  I slowly crack open the side door (for caution, but also because the throne room doors are large and I am small).  He's there, sitting on the foot of the dais, but hasn't noticed me yet.  I creep in, still afraid (I am out of bed when I shouldn't be, after all) until he looks up and sees me.  And without thought I run into his arms, slippers flying and nightgown flopping.  He holds me tightly, securely, as I take some gasping breaths, afraid I might cry, but they subside, and I look up into my daddy, the king's face.  There is such a look of tenderness and love and concern and gentleness on his face that I know no one can ever harm me, for my daddy will protect me.

Without a word, he stands, shifting my weight so he's cradling me in his arms, and walks back to my room.  I am content to lie there, hear the beat of his heart (even and strong, it says safe. safe. safe.) and look at his face.  If I were older, I would call it noble, the face of a just ruler, but now I can only think that he has a face I trust.  We get to my room, and he lays me in bed carefully, like I am a precious thing to him, and tucks the blankets in around me.  I snuggle in, happy, as he picks up the storybook from the table besides my bed and begins to read to me, his strong, even voice comforting.  I drift off to sleep, knowing I am safe and secure and loved beyond measure.